This Is How It Ends And How It Begins
by WildRamblingsInTheDarkCorners
Summary: It is over in a second. One moment, you are driving down the road, singing loudly to some old rock band, the next you run over a patch of black ice and the Impala's tires lose traction. Death!fic. Bittersweet. WIP. Please read and review!
1. Parts One and Two

**A/N: I was having a bad day and went to write, and this happened. I took some creative liberties with Heaven, but oh well. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters mentioned. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. I make no money from the piece of fanwork.**

**This is a work in progress and I do plan to add more! **

**Please read and review! :) **

**Part One **

It is over in a second. One moment, you are driving down the road, singing loudly to some old rock band, the next you run over a patch of black ice and the Impala's tires lose traction. The world flips itself over on its head, a well-placed blow is landed to the back of your skull, and suddenly everything hurts. The pain is like a fire, all-consuming, burning, hot, that incinerates you and your soul and leaves nothing but a pile of charred bones and raw nerves. To you, this pain seems to last forever and more, but in reality it only lasts a second or so.

When the pain leaves you, there is nothing but a blackness that swallows all other things. There is no light, no pain, no feelings, no anything. You cannot move in this darkness, cannot scream, cannot do anything. The blackness goes on past the edge of the universe, past the plane of reality you live on, and you are stretched with it, filling up the blackness with all of your being. Sounds begin to filter themselves into the blackness, filling the nothing with noise. Sirens in the distance, people walking and talking quickly, screaming coming from somewhere, the sickening sound of crunching metal. The words the people say make no sense to you. 'The driver isn't responding.' 'The passenger is alive and alert, but badly banged up.' 'The driver isn't breathing. Beginning chest compressions.' 'We've got the jaws of life.' 'Driver not responding. I'm calling it.' 'Passenger out! Airlifting him to the hospital.' More screaming, indistinct and undecipherable.

Then, light begins to pervade the darkness. It's bright and warm, almost comforting. The smell you vaguely remember as your mother fills your nose. Logically, rationally, you know the light should hurt, be too warm, should burn your retinas and not provide comfort. Only, it does. It wraps around you like a hug, and starts to pull you in. The sounds disappear and you shrink to the size of a toddler curling into the protective arms of a parent. You relax, close your eyes, and let the light take you. Before you are totally taken, one last sound hits your ears. A voice, one you know but can't place, is shouting a plea-curse-profanity-farewell-beg. 'Dean, Dean! Get up, Dean! Take the blanket off him, he can't breathe! Dean! This isn't funny! Dean!'

And that's when it clicks in your brain, the obvious answer that refused to come until now.

You are dead.

Actually dead.

The light consumes you.

**Part Two**

You end up on a beach that is too perfect. Sand cradles your body, feeling more like silk then tiny particles of rocks, waves lap at the soles of your feet, the water temperature too perfect to be real, and the sun warms your skin too just-right. Everything is too just right and it sets your skin crawling. You sit up, look around.

I am standing behind you, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. I am in the form you are most use too, the vessel that once belonged to Jimmy Novak. We both know that this is only for show, for your comfort, because my true form is much more suited for this place. I feel out of place in it here, but it makes you feel better. We both also know; though you cannot, will not, admit it to yourself, that this is it. There will be no crossroad deals this time around, no magic, no holy intervention, no hocus pocus, no war to bring you back, no nothing. Your eyes met mine, giving me an upset-angry-pissed-tired-saddened-scared-confused- unbelieving look. I feel the need to break the tension, so I take a breath and say the first thing that comes to mind. It is mostly joking, slightly serious. Conjuring my most impressive, stiff 'angel voice', I say, "It is done, Dean Winchester, you may rest."

You give me an unreadable look for a second, and then start to laugh. You fall back into the sand and laugh and laugh and laugh, in a way I have never seen you do before. You laugh as if it is the funniest joke you've ever heard. Perhaps it is.

I sit on the sand next to you, trying to keep a straight face, but this never-ending child-like laughter of yours is contagious and soon I am lying next to you and we both laughing as though we are drunk. Perhaps we are.

Soon, though, your laughter falls away and turns into sobs. Loud, ugly sobs that make the whole of the beach hurt. I cease laughing and sit up, wrapping my arms tightly around you and pulling you into my lap. You cry your ugly, broken sobs into my chest for who knows how long, and I hold you tightly to myself, rocking you like an infant, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, comforting you as best I can. Your cry is so filled with emotion I fear I will never fully understand it. It parts happy, parts angry, parts sad, parts fearful, parts frustrated, parts disappointed, parts things I have never felt.

You are, I think, the only person who has ever been this upset about getting into Heaven.

It is one of the many ways you are special.


	2. Part Three

**A/N: I do not like this as much I like the other one, but it's pretty good. Also, all mistakes are mine as I don't have a beta. If anyone would like to beta this for me, PM me! Also, if someone wanted to make a story image for this, I would love you forever. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters mentioned. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. I do not make any money off of this fanwork. **

**Read and review, please!**

**Part Three**

When you finally cease crying and let go of me, we are on the creaky old bed of a motel room. By now, I think you will sleep better on one of these then the softest one in the world. The beach is gone, and we are in an old, well-worn motel room. I want to bring up your parents, but do not dare. You look at me, mutter about being tired, and curl up under the blankets. I know you are not really asleep by the way you are hunched tight under the covers, but don't comment. There is not much to say to you, so I say I will go check on Sam and leave. The way you do not respond breaks my heart in a million little pieces.

It has been three months on Earth. You had cried, sobbed, for three months. The very thought makes me want to punch someone in the face. It is not fair. Nothing is fair, not in your life. It is the curse of being you, I suppose. The news I gather from the hospital is not good. It is not fair, again, and not want I to tell you. I do not tell Sam I am there, but I think Bobby sees me before I leave. The look we share lets me know exactly, as you would have put it, where I can shove it.

When I get back to the motel room, you have consumed more alcohol then it would take to make an angel drunk, but you are still stone-cold sober. Oblivion, it seems, is not so easy to reach to when you have reached oblivion. I pick my way through the bottles of beer and liquor to sit next to you on the bed. You are sprawled diagonally across the bed, staring at the ceiling. Your cheeks are covered in a layer of stubble, and you have taken off your shirt, or perhaps you came here like that. Heaven does funny things sometimes. Every scar and cut on your body, save for my handprint, is gone.

I slip in next to you and pull the can of beer out of your hand. You automatically reach for me, like a child would reach for their mother. I hold you close, but do not let out the sweet nothings that coat my tongue out. We both know that they will not comfort you, not now.

"Sam?" You ask in a broken voice. It is the first thing you have said to me since you got here. Brotherly instincts do not die when the body does, then.

I consider lying for half a second. I could tell you flowery prose about how he is fine, in perfect health, happy. But we would both know that it would have been a lie. So instead, I hold you closer and do not say anything.

"What happened to Sam?" You ask more firmly, and I wonder if you already know, have already figured out that is not good.

"Dean…The accident…" I start, folding my inky-wings tightly around you. You have never actually seen them before, because outside of Heaven, I have brought them out. Still, you bury yourself into the soft feathers.

"Tell me," it's a command and a plea and a question all at once. It appears here your emotions are harder to understand then they were on earth.

I sigh and kiss the top of your head, then take a breath and start. I tell you about the month long coma that Sam was in, and the injuries he received. I tell you he is paralyzed from the neck down and can never live independently again, will never breathe on his own again. I tell you about how he is depressed and upset and unhappy. I tell you about the long, jagged scar that will forever mar his face. I tell you about the pain and the touch and go moments, and the hardships he will face. I tell you everything but 'at least he is not dead,' because we both know it would have been better that way.

Afterwards you do not even cry. I think you have run out of tears. I hold you closer and bite my lip and do not cry, because this is not about me. It is about you and Sam.

Still, I can't help but wish you would care for me like you care for him.

I am selfish that way.


End file.
